


rush rush honey

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but like kat-brand angst so no worries), Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Fluff, Light Angst, Modern Westeros, Rating May Change, Romance, Sexual Content, em dashes em dashes EVERYWHERE i fckin know, more tags to be added as this progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: When Jon Snow is all but forced to transfer from Hardhome High to Winterfell Prep, all he wants is to get through his final year as innocuously and uneventfully as possible. But when he meets Sansa Stark almost as soon as he steps into his new life, he’s immediately wowed — and all hopes for an innocuous, uneventful school term go right out the window.





	1. first class, fancy free, she’s high society

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: i was inspired to write a big high school au project byyyyyy: vivilove’s “home is with you,” janina’s “the bad boy of winterfell,” and kittykatknits’ “the leader of the pack” — all of which y’all should check out, if you haven’t already. i just adore a good, epic high school au and wanted to throw my hat in the ring. bc we can never have too many trash drama teen fics and that’s facts
> 
> ps yeah i’m aware of how many wips i have but like… life is chaos, who cares, /end closing remarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives for his first day at Winterfell Prep, and his year takes a pretty immediate turn for the better. 
> 
> (chapter title from “she’s so high,” by tal bachman)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: jon’s car is modeled after the sunbird (specifically the ‘94 convertible, which my sister-in-law drove in high school and i’m just Really Into the aesthetic of it), but i’m calling it a -sand steed- for the canon reference

The radio’s too loud, but Jon hopes — a foolhardy thing — that it might lend him a distraction from his thunderous thoughts, so he leaves it be.

He drums restless fingers, out-of-tune to the music, against the steering wheel of his secondhand (thirdhand? Fourthhand?) Sand Steed. The car’s sort of shite, but Jon had worked hard for it under the watchful eye of his court-appointed mentor, Davos Seaworth, so at the very least it’s _his_ sort-of-shite, so he can be proud of that much.

It’s about the only thing he can be proud of, Jon thinks rather glumly, as he stares out the windshield at Winterfell Prep and thinks about how, exactly, he’d wound up here. It’s not that he’s _sorry_ to be here; Winterfell’s a top-tier school, after all, and his mother had worked hard to land a transfer to the Wintertown hospital from Hardhome’s, purely so Jon could transfer schools, too.

Jon feels a twinge of guilt for that. He and his mother had bounced towns so often they were practically nomads; if he hadn’t fallen in with such a rough crowd and the trouble that went along with it, they might have stayed settled for once. As it is, though, Jon _had_ fallen into that rough crowd and brought trouble on himself, so Lyanna Snow decided to cap their stay at Hardhome at three years — an impressive feat for them, regardless — and move on.

And now, here Jon sits: in the driver’s seat of his car on the first day of his final year, petrified that he’s going to fuck everything up again. Not that he’ll readily admit he’s petrified — no, that rough crowd of his had done a number on him back in Hardhome, and now he’s quite sure he’s about as close to the quintessential “bad boy” as any of his new peers at Winterfell Prep have ever met.

He wonders, fleetingly, if this will encourage people to pester him in their efforts to rattle his cool, aloof exterior, or — he hopes — they’ll just leave him the hell alone so he can get through the last leg of his academic career without any more trouble.

Then — because he’s hard-pressed not to say “fuck this” and peel out of the lot, and wouldn’t Davos and his mum just _love_ that? — he quits wondering anything at all and kicks his car door open (the handle always sticks), and heads to the school’s entrance before he can think better of it.

 

* * *

 

The gleaming wood-paneled corridors of Winterfell Prep are humming with early-morning activity. Metal lockers click open and clang shut, students share coffees and compare schedules and swap summer stories. Sansa has caught several snippets of gossip already that are sure to make for an interesting start to the school term. But as none of those snippets directly involve her, she’s looking forward to a lengthy late afternoon spent with her best friend Margaery, as they gorge on pizza and dissect their schoolmates’ poor life choices.

For now, though, she bids _hello_ ’s and _good morning_ ’s and a couple of _no, I’m taking Westerosi Romance this term, so I’ve got Luwin, not Baelish_ ’s (and thank the gods for _that_ ), before she makes it to her double-locker.

Winterfell Prep prides itself on its double-lockers, as they seem to think that sharing a compact space with another person will promote good will among a crowd of hot-headed adolescents. Sansa had always found the practice to be questionable at best, even-tempered and well-mannered as she is. But then, she’s never had any trouble since she usually shares with her elder brother, Robb.

Well… that’s not entirely true, she amends as she rummages through her bag for her schedule, which includes her locker number and combination. Of course, she and Robb had never engaged in fisticuffs over locker space, as so many of their peers do, but she _had_ put her foot down on sharing with him again after the whole used-gym-socks-in-her-tea debacle last year.

(The short version of the story is this: Sansa had set her Braavosi breakfast blend on the shelf while gathering her supplies for her next class. Robb had then unceremoniously tossed the socks he’d just used for morning footie practice onto the same shelf, but they’d wound up in her tea instead.)

(The long version of the story includes the aftermath: To this day, whenever she makes a new kettle of the Braavosi, Sansa swears she can hear the echo of Enya’s “Only Time” as her mind’s eye flashes the slow-motion memory of Robb fishing one soaked grey sock from her mug. It’s a painful thing, she thinks, to recall one’s lost mid-morning cuppa, even months after the fact.)

Robb had graciously bowed out of their usual agreement — “You’ll never let me live down the damn tea thing if I don’t” (little does he know that Sansa _still_ won’t ever let him live it down, locker arrangements notwithstanding) — and paired up with his mate Theon Greyjoy instead. Sansa’s friends were all settled already; although Margaery had offered to change her own plans to share with her, Sansa wasn’t about to tear her friend away from her ongoing flirtations with Theon’s sister, Yara.

“I’ll let the school figure it out,” Sansa had said with a careless shrug just a few weeks ago. “Nobody could possibly make my life worse or more emotionally compromised than Robb after he spoiled my tea, anyway.”

Robb had referred to her as _Her Royal Highness, Queen Hyperbole_ for several days afterwards, and only stopped because he regretted dubbing her such a lengthy nickname.

No matter, though. Sansa hadn’t given a lick about her brother’s dramatics — for all he called _her_ the Starks’ resident drama queen, the lot of them had a crown in their own right, too — and she’s not terribly fussed over who she shares the locker with this year, either. So long as her tea remains safe and sound, Sansa takes most everything in stride.  

Just as she dials in the combination and the metal door clicks open, quite close in her left ear, someone clears their throat and then mutters — in a deep, northern rumble that sends an inexplicable shiver down Sansa’s spine — “S’cuse me?”

 

* * *

 

Inwardly, Jon winces at his own greeting. _S’cuse me?_ And he couldn’t even be bothered to enunciate? Usually he’s not too bothered about the way he talks to people — let them think what they like, they all make their minds up about him on-sight, anyway — but he knows that this particular case has nothing to do with his rebellious streak.

No, _this_  time it’s because it’s a girl he’s talking to and, when she turns to face him, his heart falls and then soars because she’s a very _pretty_ girl, to boot.

Licorice-red hair done up in a twisty, messy ponytail. Eyes like blue raspberry rock candy that regard him curiously but nonetheless politely. Bubblegum lips graced with a tentative smile. Vanilla bean skin that’s mostly hidden by a chunky beige cardigan, black dress, leggings, and dusky mauve boots, but Jon can still tell by the smooth expanse of her face, her neck, her hands…

Oh, gods help him, he’s staring at her like a big-mouth trout, isn’t he?

Jon intones a hurried prayer that he might keep his cool, but it seems the Old Gods aren’t smiling upon him today: The first thing out of his mouth is an audible _gulp_ followed immediately by a considerably-less-than-suave “Oh — wow.”

The girl’s tentative smile cracks into a genuine one, and when a laugh like an old love song escapes those impossibly _pink_ lips, Jon only _half_ -wishes he were dead.

“Well thanks,” she says like she means it. She tucks a few flyaway hairs behind her ear and nods to the schedule in his hand. “You my new locker mate?”

“Uhm —” Jon feels like he’s choking on something, so he clears his throat again and busies himself with his schedule to confirm. “If this is hall six, locker four, then… yeah, s’pose I am.”

“Definitely are, then.” She moves her bag to make room, then turns back to him with an outstretched hand and introduces herself. “I’m Sansa Stark. Haven’t seen you ‘round before. Transfer?”

Jon stares at her proffered hand a moment. _Does she want me to shake it?_ It’s not much for absurdity, really, only Jon doesn’t know anyone their age who shakes hands; his friends back in Hardhome would have laughed their arses off over it. Not that it’s _funny_ , but… Well, most of his friends back in Hardhome never had a great grasp of what was actually funny and what wasn’t, anyway.

So Jon slips his hand into hers — and her skin’s softer than Myrish silk, too, which only sparks another wire in his brain to go haywire — and he tells her, “Yeah, I’m —”

_“Your Royal Highness.”_

They’re interrupted with a flourish, by a tall, rather burly boy who shoves a travel mug under Sansa Stark’s nose. She retracts her hand from Jon’s to take it, and his disappointment only fades when he takes note of the boy’s wavy auburn hair and blue eyes — far too similar to Sansa’s to be anything but blood-related.

 _Not a boyfriend, then._ Jon’s lips twitch upwards.

“You left your precious breakfast blend in the car,” the boy is chastising Sansa without sounding truly all that put-off. “I’m not your damn servant.”

“No, you’re not,” Sansa agrees. She takes a dainty sip from the mug. “If you were, I would have dismissed you for your lecherous behaviour while on the job. You know I had to hightail it out of the car before Talisa walked past and you drowned me in drool. My poor tea would have been a casualty to your budding romance.”

She pouts a moment, then sighs and sips again to hide her encroaching, take-the-mickey smile. “But better cold in the name of love than sweat-socked just because you’re an idiot, I’d say.”

Jon suspects there’s a story there somewhere.

“You’re one to talk,” the boy — who Jon assumes must be Sansa’s brother — scoffs, a bit red at the mention of this Talisa person. He side-eyes Jon. “Who’s this, then?”

“Oh, unclench, Robb, he’s not hitting on me.” Sansa rolls her eyes, than casts an apologetic look Jon’s way. “He’s my locker mate, and he was just about to tell me _who_ he is when you prematurely decided you didn’t like him.”

 _Well I get that a lot_ , Jon thinks, but he’s relieved when the words don’t tumble thoughtlessly from his tongue.

Robb’s smiling at him now, apparently happy to hear that Jon isn’t putting the moves on his sister. Jon is quite happy himself to say that he’s never put the moves on anyone; the couple of girls he’s dated in the past had taken the lead there, and it had ended in such disaster that Jon’s even more skittish around girls than he used to be.

He’d like to blame that on his little _“Oh — wow”_ gaffe, too, but no, that had just been all entirely Sansa Stark.

(Jon _might_ be in a spot of trouble with this one, but now’s not the time to examine it too closely. For the moment, he'll just be grateful that she didn’t tell Robb about his little lapse in self-control, or his tendency to go momentarily slack-jawed.)

“Right, then,” Robb says as he thrusts his hand at Jon, who supposes handshakes must really be _a thing_ ‘round here, so he obliges. “Since you’re not hitting on my sister before the tea gets ahold of her and she’s got the good sense to reject you, I’m Robb Stark. Meetcha.”

“Jon Snow. Just transferred from Hardhome. Final year in prep.”

“Same here.” Robb jerks a thumb at Sansa. “She’s technically two years behind us, but she skipped ahead _and_ she’s taking on a final term’s course load, so you’ll probably have most of your classes with one of us, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Jon lifts his eyebrows, interested in more ways than one, at Sansa. “You smart?”

She nods — not smug or haughty or anything of the ilk, just in acknowledgement of what he’s said. Jon likes that.

“Except for maths,” she confesses, although she doesn’t appear too remorseful of this shortcoming.

“She’s shite at maths,” Robb agrees.

“But I _did_ get Talisa’s number before he did,” Sansa tells Jon smoothly. She hums into her tea. “Robb’s just lucky that I’m not interested in snagging his woman, because I could’ve had her if I’d wanted her.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re irresistible,” Robb deadpans, then chuckles when Sansa socks him in the stomach.

She returns to her mug and asks Jon, “What’ve you got first?”

As it transpires, Jon has all of his classes with either Sansa or Robb, and study hall with both. He doesn’t have siblings of his own — it’s always just been him and Mum — and he wonders if the Starks are so bubbly and good with people purely because they’ve been _surrounded_ by them since birth.

By contrast, Jon feels more reserved than he’d thought himself to be, not particularly friendly but not _un_ friendly, either; in any case, though, neither Sansa nor Robb seem to mind. He has a sneaking suspicion that Robb’s the sort to try to break one out of their shell, which Jon would positively dread if he weren’t equally as sure that Sansa likes him just fine the way he is.

Or he thinks so, anyway, but he’s not one to ask questions and (for now) his suppositions serve him well enough. It certainly won’t do him any favours to worry that he’s not good enough for the likes of Sansa Stark, so (for now) he’d just do better to ignore those wriggling seeds of self-doubt. Perhaps he’ll give voice to them during his next counseling session with Davos but, again, now’s not the time.

Despite how taciturn he tends to be, throughout the day Jon finds himself relaxing — albeit the smallest bit, but still his shoulders feel lighter than they have since he can remember — in this new environment. Back in Hardhome, Jon had always had to prove himself, to the point where he didn’t know where what his friends wanted him to be ended and where _he_ truly began. Now, here at Winterfell Prep, he’s had all of six hours with the Starks and they’ve accepted him into their fold, without knowing much of anything about him at all.

In all honesty, Jon’s not sure how he feels about that yet; but it is nice to finish out the day without a nosebleed or a stress headache, so he’ll definitely take _that_ silver lining without cross-examination.

It’s almost too good to be true, really, so of course _something_ has to happen to sour Jon’s mood. He confesses, privately, that it’s not the worst thing that could have happened — far from it, considering his track record — but when Sansa pops open their locker at day’s end to a veritable shower of little slips of notebook paper, it sure _feels_ like it.

“What the —” Sansa scoops one up and promptly wrinkles her nose in confusion. “Why would Alys stick her phone number in here? I’ve already got her number.” She rifles through a few others. “And Mya… Jeyne… Satin… _oh!_ ”

Realization dawns and her cheeks bloom pink. Jon is torn between how cute — _cute? Jon, you sod, she’s a bloody knockout and well out of your league_ — she looks, and his sudden agitation with Winterfell Prep’s student population.

Jon would be the first to admit that he doesn’t think too highly of himself. But these people don’t _know_ him, and if he’s honest he prefers it when his bad reputation precedes him, rather than his good looks. It just makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t care how he looks; so why should that be enough for anyone else?

Maybe it’s just that so many of his mates and barely-tolerable acquaintances in Hardhome razzed him so much about his “pretty curls” and “harlot’s mouth” and other such shite, but Jon would sooner prefer to never look in a mirror again if it meant he could pretend that nobody else noticed those things about him.

And now he’s brooding over it and he feels like an idiot.

Meanwhile, Sansa collects the scraps of paper and tries to hand them over. “I reckon these were meant for you.”

“I don’t want them.” He waves her off and shoves his books onto the shelf. “Toss them, please, Sansa.”

She looks like she wants to press, perhaps, but instead she does as he asks. Jon wants to kiss her for that, but that would be even more stupid — on _so_ many levels, including but not limited to the fact that they’d only just met that morning — than pouting about the whole thing, so he doesn’t.

Instead he gives her a short, gruff “Thanks” and leaves it at that. That’s more like him, anyway.

“So,” Sansa begins, as though she knows he needs a change of subject, “a couple of our friends skived off because they always do the first day, but they want us to meet them at Hobb’s about four-ish, if you’d like?”

“Why do they skive?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Sansa starts ticking them off on her fingers. “Margaery because she’s a firm believer in being ‘fashionably late,’ Loras and Renly because they can get away with it, Theon because he always skives for no reason whatsoever, and my sister Arya because she likes to ease her professors into her purely debauched nature as soon as possible.” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “It’s courteous, see.”

As though his dark mood from mere moments ago had never happened at all, Jon allows himself a laugh. “I see, yeah.”

“So?” She’s smiling at him again. Jon’s quickly learned that Sansa is just a smiley sort of person, and even _more_ quickly he’d realized how dangerous a smile like that is for a guy like him. “How about it?”

Jon looks away, to the interior of their shared locker, and heaves a sigh even as his own grin threatens to split his face in two. Next to him, he can hear a burst of a giggle escape Sansa as she pretends to patiently await his answer, and maybe _that’s_ what does it, because the next thing he knows —

“How about yeah?” He meets her eye again, and for once he lets the grin take over without overthinking what could possibly, potentially happen to take it away.

But when Sansa lets the giggles go — no hesitation, no restraint — Jon can’t imagine _anything_ that could spoil the way he feels right now.

And if he wants to overthink that later, well…

He grabs his bag, Sansa shuts their locker, and then she proceeds to chatter his ear off on their way down hallway six. If he wants to overthink it, there’s plenty of time to freak the fuck out later — Jon’s always been able to find time for an existential crisis, after all — _after_ a late afternoon at Hobb’s.


	2. if you wanna walk my way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang meets at Hobb’s, and everyone gets to know Jon while he and Sansa (privately) wish to get to know each other. 
> 
> (chapter title from “love me like you mean it,” by kelsea ballerini)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thank you THANK YOU for so many wonderful comments! i can be like so negligent about replying to all of them BUT i’m in love with every single one!! :D
> 
> some deetz that are introduced in this chapter: in this fic, i’ve decided to make it so gendry is not only acknowledged by robert, but is very much a part of his life (and yes, that’s gonna make for some Good Shit between gendry and his half-brother joffrey later), so don’t be confused when i introduce him as gendry baratheon rather than gendry waters 
> 
> also note: i harbor no hate or ill will at all for canon ygritte, but i needed a lil dramz for jon to deal with so that’s just where we’re at
> 
> and last but CERTAINLY NOT LEAST… y’all will pry my “la bamba” jokes from my cold, dead hands, and not a m o m e n t sooner (and you know what, probably not even when i’m dead, either, lbr)

“Right.” Margaery glances over her shoulder to check that the coast is clear, then swivels in her seat to face Sansa with her trademark mischievous smirk. “So what’s the deal with your new boy toy, then?”

Sansa pulls a face, confused, and asks through a mouthful of whipped cream and chocolate shake, “What boy toy?”

“That’s real attractive, San,” her friend drawls. She scoops a bit of whipped cream from Sansa’s chin, then licks her finger clean. She sighs wistfully, for a moment forgetting what she really wanted to talk about while the boys were preoccupied with Hobb’s refurbished jukebox in the corner. “Well that’s my sugar quota for the day. Gran keeps going on about the ‘curse of the Tyrell birthing hips,’ she seems to think my bones will expand if I don’t watch my calorie intake.”

“That sounds wildly misogynistic.”

“Well she said the same thing to Loras so, you know, _equality_.”

“Hm.” Sansa finds she can’t argue with that, so she slurps more milkshake off her spoon instead.

Olenna Tyrell was quite the formidable woman who had grown up in the pageant circuit, so it’s no small wonder that she’d hem and haw over such things as the “curse of the Tyrell birthing hips,” as Margaery said.

Silly and senseless as it is, Sansa can hardly hold it against her. Olenna had, after all, pulled her grandchildren out of Highgarden and brought them north rather than further south when it was time for them to start preparatory school. Apparently Red Keep Academy (not to mention King’s Landing as a whole) wasn’t up to snuff in Olenna’s opinion. Over RKA and its penchant for bribery, nepotism, and the like, Olenna had preferred Winterfell Prep and the North for their honest hard work and dedication.

And so Margaery and Loras Tyrell had swept in on a wave of new money, fast cars, and impeccable fashion taste, and Sansa had found two of the best friends she’s sure to ever know.

As such, she feels it’s her duty to steer the conversation back in Margaery’s initial direction, so she says, “Alright, so much as I’m sure I’m going to regret asking… what’s this about my new boy toy and how is it that I’m the last to know about him?”

Margaery’s smirk is a wholly amused one. “Sweetling, you _brought_ him here.”

“First of all —” Sansa lifts a finger “— don’t call me that. Professor Baelish calls me that.”

She shudders at the thought. The English and drama instructor’s familiarity with her could be chalked up to the fact that he was an old family friend of her mother’s, she supposes, but… At any rate, that fact didn’t prevent the thick tension between the man and her father. In fact, Sansa is quite sure that Petyr Baelish’s connection to her mother is precisely the cause of said tension.

But even such old rivalries aside, Baelish sends a shiver down Sansa’s spine that is far from the delightful shock she’d experienced when Jon Snow had muttered _S’cuse me?_ in her ear this morning, and —

 _Wait._ Sansa frowns. _What was I thinking about again?_

“They don’t call him ‘Baeless’ for nothing, apparently.” Margaery clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Clearly the nickname’s got merit, if he’s looking to a student upon whom to unleash his heinous terms of endearment.”

_Oh, right. That’s what I was thinking about._

Sansa shakes it off with another spoonful of whipped cream. She’s not particularly keen on discussing Professor Baelish further; with any luck, she’ll be seeing little-to-none of him this term.

 _Out of sight, out of mind, right?_ Sansa decides to put it out of hers, and carries on with their original conversation.

“Second of all, I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 _“Jon Snow.”_ Margaery jerks her head in his general direction, still in the corner with Robb, Theon, and the jukebox. “The boy’s been eyeing you like… Well, the way I’m eyeing your whipped cream.”

Sansa stifles a snort, but the chuckle escapes anyway. “But you’re not allowed to have any whipped cream,” she jokes.

“No…” Margaery’s eyes sparkle with some wicked intent. “But I’d still really, really like to fuck it.”

At that, Sansa loses it. Her spoon clatters on the tabletop (along with a smattering of milkshake, straight from her mouth) as she positively bursts into a hysterical fit. She can feel her cheeks heat and tears prick at the corners of her eyes as Margaery joins her for the laugh, albeit more composed than Sansa is at the moment.

Vaguely, she recalls a time when she cared about things like that.

But before she can venture too far down not-so-distant memory lane, Margaery reaches over the table and lightly smacks her upside the head. It only makes Sansa laugh harder, even when she says through the pain in her chest, “ _Ouch_ , you cow, what’d you do that for?”

Margaery jerks her head again — “ _That’s_ what I’m talking about!” — and this time, Sansa’s gaze is compelled to follow the motion.

She blinks away her residual mirthful tears, but still she can see quite clearly, and what she sees makes her heart do a curious little flip: Jon Snow, leaning against the wall in the back corner, arms crossed and eyes on her.

His lips quirk when their eyes lock, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat.

 _“Ay, arriba arriba!”_ Margaery is fanning herself vigorously, as she throws a knowing look at Sansa and sings along with the track the boys had punched in on the jukebox.

“Oh, quit.” Sansa balls up a napkin and hits Margaery with it square in the forehead.

_“PARA BAILAR LA BAMBA — !”_

Sansa heaves a great sigh and rests her head on the table, shoulders still shuddering with barely-repressed giggles. And all the while her heart remains lodged somewhere in her throat, and she wonders…

Well, she’s not quite sure _what_ she’s wondering, exactly; only that she _is_.

 

* * *

 

If anyone were to ask him, likely Jon wouldn’t admit how out-of-his-element he is among the crowd at Hobb’s. It’s not so bad when it’s only Robb and his mate Theon Greyjoy, but when the rest of them pile into the shop, Jon confesses himself overwhelmed.

He’d been wary enough when Sansa and Robb had immediately taken him under their respective wings, without any ulterior motive, and their sister Arya is no less straightforward. She gives him the once-over when she shakes his hand — the latter of which he’s already used to by now — and decides, “Well if you’re good enough for my sister, I s’pose you’re good enough for me, too.”

Her smile alleviates the sort-of insult, but the tips of Jon’s ears redden when Arya winks at Sansa. He can’t bring himself to meet her eye after that, but he does catch her giggle and somehow that calms his nerves.

Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon are the typical posh boys Jon had been afraid of when his mum told him he was transferring to Winterfell Prep, but as it turns out they’re more friendly than anything else. Arya’s boyfriend Gendry — another Baratheon — seems like the sort Jon could get on famously with, although he admittedly doesn’t quite understand the relation between him and Renly.

(“No one does,” Arya whispers to Jon, loudly and conspiratorially, and that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to get.)

Talisa Maegyr seems sweet, and it’s rather funny to watch Robb moon over her the way that he does, for which everyone takes the mickey and he, in turn, takes it in stride. Theon’s sister, Yara, however, takes an instant dislike to Jon that he doesn’t quite understand, but he lets it roll off his shoulders all the same; it’s the attitude he’d been expecting from _everyone_ at Winterfell Prep, so all things considered he’s not doing too poorly for himself.

But for all the friends it seems he’s making, there’s one whom Jon seeks out. Through the afternoon, more often than not, Jon finds himself sidling up to Sansa’s side. It’s like he fucking _gravitates_ towards her, and he hardly notices until it’s too late: when the arm of her chunky cardigan brushes his own, when he can smell something distinctly coconut-y and the snap of spearmint gum. She’s been chewing it all day, on and off so often that Jon thinks she must go through a pack a day — and he bets it must taste like heaven to kiss her, too.

The thought of it makes Jon’s palms sweaty.

She’s on her second milkshake while they’re chatting. Jon had noticed earlier that she could be something of a messy eater, but he doesn’t mind it; in fact, he thinks it’s cute, although surely he can’t say that to her. He’s surprised he can talk around her at all. Most people tend to think that his reticence makes him seem _cool_ and  _aloof_ , but really Jon just isn’t much for talking. But Sansa brings it out in him, and Jon thinks that she’s the sort of person who brings out the best in everybody.

He never actually thought he had a _best_ at all, but… Well. Jon keeps his smile to himself. _Maybe._

“Hang on,” he interrupts Sansa mid-story. “You’ve got a little —”

Without thinking, Jon swipes whipped cream from the corner of her lip and sucks it off his thumb. He’d seen her friend Margaery do something similar earlier — because he just can’t take his eyes off Sansa for a damn second already, can he? — but once he’s done it for himself he’s not so sure it was such a good idea. She tastes like sugar and chocolate and cherry ChapStick, and now she’s looking at him like maybe she wants to know what he tastes like, too.

_Holy shit, man, find your chill and douse yourself in it._

“Um.” Sansa swipes at the same, now clean, corner of her mouth and it twitches up a little. “Thanks.”

Jon can only nod in response; he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Across the table, Margaery smirks and Yara scowls. The latter juts her chin in Jon’s direction so that he’s sure he’s about to get an earful, but Yara’s got it in her head to totally rip the rug out from under him, too —

“You’re going with that Ygritte, aren’t you?”

Jon’s stomach plummets. He can feel Sansa stiffen in her seat next to him, and he very much wishes that the floor would open up and swallow him. _Any time now…_

But of course he has no such luck, so instead he answers, “Not for about six months now.”

It’s the truth — one that Jon is immensely grateful for — but Yara isn’t satisfied just yet. Not that Jon particularly cares what Yara Greyjoy thinks about his relationship status but, well…

His gaze flits to Sansa and he supposes that says it all.

Margaery seems pleased enough by that momentary eye contact, but Yara persists with an unimpressed arched brow: “Because you were moving?”

“No, we ended it before I even knew I was coming to Winterfell.” Jon rubs his nose — a nervous habit. “She was just…”

“A bit fucking much?”

 _Don’t even get me started_ , Jon thinks, but aloud he settles on, “Something like that.”

“Well good on you. I like you now.” Finally, Yara graces him with a smile. She swipes a few chips and explains, “She broke my nose once, Ygritte did. Must’ve been around the time you ditched her, six months ago or whereabouts. Theon and I swung by a party in Hardhome on our way back from our uncle’s. Got into it with her.”

Jon nods, understanding. He hadn’t been at that particular party — it was only three days after he’d ended things with Ygritte and he hadn’t wanted to see her — but he’d heard all about it. He’s sure that Ygritte likely would have ended up in a fistfight regardless of him, but her heightened emotions hadn’t been anyone’s friend. She’d even clocked Grenn for making some crack about the breakup, and he was twice her size. Not that he’d ever do anything to retaliate — indeed, Grenn had taken his black eye without much comment at all — but still.

“You know,” Margaery pipes up with a Cheshire cat grin, “Sansa broke up with her boyfriend about six months ago, too. Kismet, right?”

She waggles her eyebrows and Sansa sighs. “Margaery…”

 _Oh?_ Jon would very much like to hear more about that, but the look on Sansa’s face tells him not to press. He can’t blame her — after all, it’s not like he’s chomping at the bit to discuss Ygritte — but he hopes that she’ll maybe spill the beans eventually.

His hope is promised to be realized, too, when Sansa slants a glance his way and says, “I’ll tell you all about my dirty laundry, once I’ve got something on you I can use for blackmail.”

“That’s fair,” Jon agrees.

And with that, they let the topic rest for the time being.

 

* * *

 

Robb and Theon have a six o’clock team meeting, so Jon — rubbing the back of his neck throughout — mumbles an offer to give Sansa a ride home.

“Aye, I bet you’ll give her a ride,” Yara remarks lasciviously. She’d warmed up to Jon since he admitted he wasn’t seeing Ygritte anymore, and has since jumped on Margaery’s _embarrass the seven hells out of Sansa_ bandwagon.

It embarrasses Jon, too, if the glowing red tips of his ears are any indication. Sansa’s gut hurts with nervous laughter, but she takes pity on him. At least she’s used to the combined forces of the Tyrells and Greyjoys, meanwhile poor Jon has had hardly a moment to acclimate. 

“Or you and Margaery could give me a lift?” she teases as the group crosses the car park, but the threat lingers plain as day all the same.

“Oh- _ho_!” Yara laughs, short but hearty all the same. “Well-played, Stark. Hell no.”

And so that settles _that_.

Jon opens his Sand Steed’s passenger door for her — “The handle sticks,” he says, but Sansa suspects that he would have done so even if it didn’t.

She likes that. She’s liking more and more of Jon Snow as the day passes, even though…

Well, she just doesn’t want to get ahead of herself, Sansa thinks as she clicks her seatbelt and Jon slides into the seat next to her. But if she’s honest, it might be just a _tad_ too late to avoid jumping the gun here.

_What can I say? At the end of the day I’m still a bloody romantic at heart._

She hates to admit how glad she was that Jon asked her to toss those phone numbers earlier. They’ve only _just_ met, and considering previous experience… Well, suffice it to say that Sansa isn’t so easily won over by a pretty face and nice manners. Too often it’s only a smokescreen for the sort of person he really is — and that person is never worth the pretty face.

But then again, Sansa recalls Jon’s discomfort when he’d figured out those little scraps of paper before she had. And judging by the fact that Sansa _knows_ none of those people had so much as spoken to Jon all day (as she’d been with him through the bulk of it), maybe he doesn’t just want to be a pretty face, either. Maybe he wants there to be something more to him than what’s on the surface.

Then _again_ … Sansa’s sure she’s overthinking this — she’s always been inclined to do so — but she prefers to think of herself as thorough, considering all the angles so as to approach a situation as efficiently as possible.

She approaches people the same way, and she recalls a conversation she had with Robb and Theon only a few weeks previously, when they’d been lounging poolside one lazy Sunday afternoon:

_“I wish girls told me I was pretty,” Theon sighed, sunglasses on and eyes to the sky._

_“Theon, you’re beautiful,” Sansa drawled from where she floated on a raft, fingers dipping idly into the sun-warmed water. “The prettiest prince in all of Westeros.”_

_Robb chuckled. “He’s got a point. We tell you lot how pretty you are all the time —”_

_“And often we don’t care to hear it,” Sansa pointed out._

_“Fair enough.” Theon shrugged. “But you know, for once I’d like to hear that my eyes glitter like the Narrow Sea at sunset, too.”_

_“Yes,” Robb agreed. He punched an emphatic fist into a nearby beach ball, and sent the thing flying across the patio. “Romance me, damn it! I’d kill for Talisa to tell me I’ve got princess hair.”_

_“I want someone to tell me that my laugh reminds them of love songs or windchimes or some shit like that,” Theon added._

_Robb snapped his fingers before pointing one at Sansa. “Now gather the women and share your newfound knowledge!”_

Sansa had done just that — Talisa had been amused but agreeable, and Arya had rolled her eyes and said “I already tell Gendry shit like that” — and now she wonders if Jon would like to hear something of the sort, too.

She regards him curiously, but it’s hard to tell much of anything from just a look. 

Maybe if it wasn’t just some strangers throwing their phone numbers his way, Jon would appreciate a genuine compliment. Sansa gets the feeling he’s not too accustomed to those, so she takes the plunge before she can go on overthinking.

“I like your hair.”

“Uh — my — thank you?” As she should have expected, Jon is rather startled. He glances at her, blushing, before he sets his sights back on the road and frowns slightly. “Why would you… um?”

“Well, I think you should always tell people the nice things you think about them.”

“Oh. That’s…” Jon blinks a few times. His hands fidget on the steering wheel and he licks his lips, and Sansa thinks he’s got quite a stock of nervous habits and wonders why that is. “So ‘oh, wow’ was really alright, then?”

Sansa’s heart skips at the memory, but that’s one thing she doesn’t want to overthink just yet. “Mhmm.”

“Oh,” Jon says again, and she catches the hint of a rather self-satisfied grin on his face. “Well. Good, then.”

They pass the next ten minutes a little more at ease with one another than they were before. Not that Sansa, for her part, had been uncomfortable with Jon — not at all, in fact, quite the contrary. Considering her less-than-stellar experience with boys her age so far, that comes as a pleasant surprise.

But still there’s an undeniable tension that lingers between them, one that sparks with electricity and promise and… Sansa doesn't know what else, but it makes her head spin and she resolves to pick it apart with Margaery during their next girls’ night.

There’s nothing else to be done about it at the moment, so for now, Sansa shakes it off and directs Jon to the Starks’ property at the end of Wolfswood Lane.

He parks on the curb. Silence settles once more as Sansa gathers her things, but when she meets his eye again to say goodbye, there’s a look of utmost concentration on Jon’s face that she can’t quite decipher.

Her stomach flutters when he scrubs a hand through those dark springy curls she likes so much, and he takes a deep breath.

“Sansa, I — listen, Robb mentioned that he and Theon are starting morning football practices, so if you need a ride to school…” Jon bites his lip, and Sansa’s going to have to talk to Margaery about why such a gesture makes her skin heat so, too. “I could pick you up in the mornings. And take you back in the afternoons. I mean, I guess Winterfell doesn’t slack on their footie team, do they?”

His smile is tentative, like he’s afraid she might say no, but Sansa’s not about to do any such thing (for a myriad of reasons, most of which she’s still refusing to overthink).

_This is nice, me and Jon. Just let it be nice for right now._

“Really? That would be great.” Sansa had been planning to ask the Tyrells, but their house is twenty minutes out of the way, and Sansa loathes the bus. Besides, this gives her an idea. “On one condition, though.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“We play my game. The ‘what I like about you’ game,” she clarifies. She hopes the notion doesn’t make Jon think her childish, but… “Nobody should be as surprised as you were when I said I like your hair. And you can tell me things you like about me, too, if you want.”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, then his gaze drops from hers to her neck to her… He shakes his head, too vigorously to be inconspicuous, and focuses on her face again. A sheepish grin toys with his lips and Sansa finds herself not minding that his eyes wandered.

“I think I can think of a few things, yeah,” he tells her. His voice is hoarse, and a tingle shoots up Sansa’s spine.

_Another thing to speak to Margaery about._

After an exchange of _see-you-in-the-morning_ ’s, Sansa hops out of the car, only to turn at the sound of Jon’s throat clearing and a rather hasty call of her name.

“Sansa?”

“Yeah?”

He stares at her for a moment, that look of concentration back on his face, and then… “What’s your favourite coffee?”

“Tea,” she corrects him with a smile. “Braavosi breakfast in the morning, lemon balm in the afternoon.”

“Right. You bring it from home,” Jon recalls. He pauses, then shoots her another grin. “Don’t tomorrow, though.”

“Trying to buy my friendship, are you?” Sansa teases.

He’s still smiling at her. “Something like that,” he says, and winks — a rather bold move for someone as reserved as he is, Sansa thinks, but she likes it all the same. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It’s a question, as though Jon would still back off if she suddenly, inexplicably wanted him to, but…

 _Well._ Sansa doesn’t want him to.

“Tomorrow,” she confirms, and they’re still swapping smiles as he drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this chapter was originally supposed to extend into another scene, but ultimately imo it was too much of an info dump and i decided i’d incorporate it into the next chapter instead. we’re still in the set-up stage here, but i don’t wanna slow burn the hell outta this or anything, just blah blah blah pacing and shit, idk, i wanted to post tonight so i hope we’re cool and i’ll see y’all back here soonish
> 
> xoxo gossip girl


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